Lunar Eclipse
by TheRealLunarEclipse
Summary: Blair's life is shattered when she unexpectedly turns into a werewolf and an unspeakable tragedy occurs. Distraught, she flees to Beacon Hills where she seeks help in her old best friend Scott McCall, having no where else to turn. There she learns Scott has been thrown into this whole supernatural mix as well. Couldn't be just a coincidence, could it? Derek/OC.
1. Prologue

Prequel  
Blair's Point of View

* * *

I'm sick of it.

_Fucking _sick of everything. Of _him_.

There's not a thing I did to deserve this, no matter how many times he relentlessly insists that there is. Mom died in a car crash. I was there, quiet and in the passenger seat. She and I were never very close, but we still had some sort of relationship-she was my mother after all. I still loved her. Never in a billion years would I have ever done _anything _to harm her, to make it so she is no longer a part of this earth. How could he? How could he be so ignorant and spiteful that he'd constantly blame his own daughter for the death of her mom?

It was the guy behind the truck's fault, for being drunk out of his mind as he decided to drive like a psychopath in the middle of the night. Or maybe it was fate's fault for choosing this unspeakably horrific tragedy to happen to a perfectly benevolent human being like Mom. It could be anyone's fault. Why did he have it stuck in his head that it's mine?

"She'd never be behind that goddamn wheel that night if it weren't for _you_," he hisses, jabbing his beer bottle towards me, some of the alcoholic acid dripping from the edge due to his abrupt movement. "She would have been at home, safe. _Breathing. _Your brother and I wouldn't have had to see her pale and lifeless corpse lying in a morgue!"

I just sit and listen, my fists clenching under the kitchen table, my leg bouncing up and down while I try and keep myself calm. He's been screaming and shouting the same speech almost every night, every day, for six months. Glaring at me with such unsuppressed resentment that it feels like his eyes are daggers stabbing me straight through my heart. But there's only so much a person can take. There's only so much I can take.

So that's why I finally say something. I never respond to his ruthless behavior towards me, especially since I know it won't solve anything. Right now that's going to change. I refuse to let this asshole treat me like dirt for another moment longer.

"You know what," I sneer, getting up from my seat and standing directly in front of his ugly face. "I'm so tired of hearing you verbally abuse me every damn day. I'm your daughter, _your daughter_. You're supposed to be there for me, comforting me for having to witness the death of my own mom!" Feeling the tears constricting in my throat, I forcefully swallow them down. I won't cry in front of him. "Hell, you've never been the most fantastic person, but who knew you could be such a heartless bastard?"

When he hits me, I don't really feel it. Not at first. The shock is enough to distract me from the pain. But it's the anger that really causes any ting of agony to shrivel into nothingness. Vibrating through my body, red-hot and crawling down my spine, under my skin, is an astronomical rush of rage that I've never experienced before in my lifetime. I can't imagine an emotion this intense, this uncontrollable, could actually exist.

The man's facial expression changes, his once enraged, piercing eyes are now drowning in bewilderment. But it's soon that my ability to study his appearance vanishes, and my vision turns hazy, my surroundings becoming blurred. My entire form is shaking, trembling turbulently in my own skin; short and shallow breathes of air violently scrape past my throat. I should be scared. I should be horrified of what's happening to me. But I'm not. The only thing I can feel is the utterly carnivorous and ferocious indignation churning inside of me, like a pool of dangerous chemicals ready to explode.

And that man, that horrendous, devilish man, is the target.

A blood-curdling sound thunders in the room, bouncing off the walls, seemingly shaking anything around or in its path. What was that sound? Did someone scream? No, that wasn't anything human—it was a growl. An animalistic roar.

It takes me only a moment to realize that it came from me.

The blurry figure in front of me starts to quickly stagger back, in scared and hurried movements. For the life of me, I can't remember who it is—_what_ it is. And I don't care either. All I know is that I have the urge to rip its throat out, leave it lying there to die in a puddle of crimson. I can sense its fear. I can _smell _it radiating off of it, pumping rapidly through its veins. The blood-lust boiling in the pit of my stomach heightens. Another roar blares.

Suddenly, there's a second heartbeat in the room, almost as frantic as the one belonging to the horrified thing backed up against the wall, trying to get as far away from me as possible. I whirl around to find a bleary silhouette, matching the calmer heartbeat. It's much smaller than the other. It's moving. Yelling, maybe. I can smell its fear, too. But there's something about this specific creature. It's not the target of my rage. No, not at all. Somewhere deep down, swirling inside of me, is a spark of an entirely different emotion. Nothing close to anger—and it's directed toward the small one.

It advances toward me. I snarl, warning to back away, to not come any closer. It doesn't understand, because it continues further without any hesitation. Another surge of anger shoots throughout my body, to the point where my mind completely shuts off.

That minuscule spark is swallowed whole by the unstoppable, murderous animosity.

The last thing I remember is lunging at the small, blurry figure.

* * *

Hot. Everything is _so _hot. It feels like my entire body—my limbs, my back, my head—are on fire. God, it hurts. Not only is it worse than any pain I've experienced before, but it's a very different kind of pain, one I can't begin to understand how it came to be. With how extremely sore every part of me is, it's like I'm a rag that's been rung out way too many times. Hell, I thought stubbing my toe was agonizing. That's like having an orgasm compared to what I'm enduring right now.

My eyes, after a long stream of forceful moments, tear open. Immediately, they're burning along with the rest of my body, but typically for a different explanation—the sun beating down on me. Groaning, I sit up, lifting my stiff arms to rub my hand across my face, feeling like I just woke up from a very long and fitful slumber. Once I'm at least a little more aware and awake, I study my surroundings.

I'm in a forest, positioned on the cold, wet ground. Trees loom around me; sunshine peaks through the gaps, but despite the brightness of the area, darkness seems to engulf everything—in invisible, eerie darkness that causes goosebumbs to arise on my naked arms. Everything is so still, so silent, as if I'm the only thing alive in an inanimate painting. Trembling slightly, and not only from the cold, I peer down at myself. My clothes are shredded, leaving me barely covered and looking as if I had been run over by a bus.

What happened? Why am I here and not at him, getting ready for school with Nate? Why can't I remember anything?

And then I turn my head to the left, and it feels like my entire body, my entire being, crumbles into a million broken pieces.

Nate, my perfectly innocent little brother, is lying on the ground, his throat torn open and dry blood covering almost every inch of him.

Dead.

"_NO!"_ My voice doesn't sound like me. The shriek that erupts from my throat couldn't belong to me; it's too disturbed. Too heartbroken. "No, no, please, Nate." I crawl over to him, hot grief streaming down my cheeks as my quivering hands hover over his pale, inert body. "Nate, wake up! _Please_." But he doesn't budge; his eyes don't open, and with excruciating pain ripping through my heart, I realize that they never will again.

Staring at him through my foggy, tear-filled eyes, my mind wanders in places that they've never been before, trying, _forcing_, myself to remember what happened. Who had done this to him? What monster hurt my baby brother?!

Suddenly, like a wire connecting with its match, it all comes rushing back to me. Last night—the fight with my dad, my outburst at him, his hand slapping across my face, and those indescribable sensations of rage...

At that moment, I had forgotten who I was. I had transformed into something that wasn't me—it couldn't have been. Rage as barbaric and vicious as it was could never be a part of me. Usually, I liked to think I was a good person, kindhearted most of the time. Sometimes I was a bitch, but wasn't every teenage girl? No, I wouldn't let an emotion as horrible as uncontrollable anger control me. That isn't who I am.

But I did. _Oh god. _ I did.

The anger _did _overpower me, and it was as if I was an animal. An blood-thirsty animal that finally found its pray—which happened to be my dad. Every single thing was a target in my eyes. Everything was in my way of murdering the sadistic man who has put my through constant abuse for the past six months. I wasn't even able to recognize him as my father; he was merely a blurred figure.

…. So was Nate.

Nate had gotten in my way. He had attempted to interfere. He tried to save his father. Save _me _from killing _my _father.

That monster, that disgusting, murderous monster, is me.

I wish the memories would cut off then, because I already understand. But they don't. Quite the contrary, they seem to enlarge, quicken—the blood, _his _blood, my hands, which had inexplicably formed claws, were drenched in it—they flash before my eyes, compelling me to watch what I had done. The terrible, unforgivable thing I swore to myself I would never let myself do.

I killed someone.

And not only that, I killed my brother.

That's when I really break down.

My body convulses with heart wrenching wails as I slowly lean my head forehead near his chest,, my arms bundled up in a ball against my own. Frantic with despair, I torture myself by listening for his heart. Nothing. Complete and lifeless silence.

My head whirls. His face blazes in many different images in my mind, brightly appearing before crumbling into nothingness. A painful numbing vibrates throughout all my limbs and down my back until all I'm able to feel is the agony. Swollen with shattering dejection, I shake my head back and forth, not wanting to believe that it's actually true. Wanting to go back and time and stop myself from talking back to my father. Wanting it to be anyone else lying here dead—not him. Not _Nate. _

But mostly, wanting more than anything to take out all my fury and despair on myself. Because I did this. I'm a monster, and I murdered my own baby brother.

Soon, the hyperventilating comes to an abrupt end. I fall into a bodily quietness—no more sobbing, no more pleading or yelling. The only thing still flowing freely are the tears cascading down my face.

From there on I bury him. Using my already dirty hands to dig up as much dirt and grass as possible, creating a hole just big enough for him to fit, I take him into my trembling arms before gently settling him down. I tear off some of my pants and shirt to clean basically all of the blood off of him, and then I use leaves and flowers to cover up his wound, tucking them into his arms after I cross them. Then, gazing down at him, I brush his light ginger hair out his face, my fingertips linger against his skin.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper, my voice crackling, despondence laced through every syllable. I can taste the saltiness of my tears as they drip onto my lips. "I know that's enough, but I just hope you know that I didn't want this, Nate. Something took over me, something completely evil. Not me. I love you, baby brother. I'd never hurt you."

_But you did_, a voice that sounds uncannily like Nate's echoes in the back of my head. _You're the monster. You killed me._

I hastily stumble away from his body, hurrying to my feet. The voice continues to repeat in my head, driving an emotional pain so intense through me that I let out an ear-piercing scream.

_You're the monster._

_You killed me._

_Killed._

_Monster._

My feet start moving before I realize they are. I sprint through the forest, dashing past the trees and plants like it's an obstacle course I've been practicing for years. I don't look back once. I can't. For God's sake, I _can't _see his dead body ever again.

I understand where I'm headed once a couple hours go by, and I stop short at the end of the forest line that's now bordering a road. Breathing hard, but nevertheless not being as out of breath as I technically should be, my eyes scan over the huge, bolded words on the city entrance sign.

**Welcome to Beacon Hills**

* * *

Hope you liked it! I know none of the actual show characters have made an appearance yet, but from next chapter and on they for sure will! It may be a little confusing, so hopefully you'll understand throughout the next few chapters. Please review if I should continue! Thank you!


	2. Chapter 1

Thanks for the alerts! Means so much! But more reviews would be nice—it would make me writer quicker! Anyway, hope you enjoy!

* * *

Chapter One  
Third Person's Point of View

Soundless and graceful as a feather, Blair saunters discretely through the forest, weaving in between the trees without losing her footing once. If this were to be barely a week ago, she would be stumbling all over the place; she was as agile as a wobbling toddler. But now that has changed, for a reason she figures is due to whatever inexplicable and abominable phenomena has happened to her. Just like her sudden incredible sight and hearing, and the way she can run for miles and hardly be out of breath.

Leaves and tiny sticks have made themselves at home in her lengthy red hair. Unlike her younger brother, Nate, she inherited a much darker color—while his is so light it's almost blonde, hers is a deep, fiery red. Her skin is nearly pale as snow and is currently smudged with dirt and blood. She has quite a bit of freckles ornamenting her complexion and her features are long and thin. Her hair is the part of her with all the volume and curves; much to her dismay, she's known to be lanky and small.

Many say she's beautiful. Some say she's average. It's really up to whoever's looking at her; if they chose to recognize the beauty.

Scott McCall did. Back in middle school, he had the biggest crush on Blair. They were close friends before anything serious happened. She, young and confused, didn't know what she liked—all she knew was that Scott was the only boy that paid her any mind. She was in eighth grade and he was in sixth, but neither of them noticed the age difference. Or cared. They dated solidly for four months, holding hands during lunch and spending all their free time together, besides their goofy friend Stiles sometimes tagging along. Scott invested his little heart into the timid red-head. She, on the other hand, couldn't help but start to feel only friendly feelings toward him.

Then she had to move—her Dad got a new job. Both of them were heartbroken, but in different ways. Scott viewed it as losing his first love. Blair did as losing her best friend.

They kept in contact for while after she traveled cities away, but, like her parents warned, they drifted apart. A few times a week of emailing and calling turned into once a month. That became so it was questionable if either of them would even make an attempt after more than a couple months. Soon it was nothing. No contact at all. Their relationship fell of the face of the earth.

However they didn't forget about each other. Scott remembers her, and she sure remembers him just as much. That's why, after all that's happened to her in the past twenty-four hours, she's walking up to the McCall's doorstep.

With dry tears staining her cheeks and a shattered heart.

She briefly wonders if they even still live here before she knocks, but she doesn't have the strength to truly think about it too hard. Guess she'll just find out when either Scott comes to the door or a stranger does.

Her knuckles reluctantly drum against the wooden door.

She waits. For how long, she doesn't care. It's difficult to consider a factor like time in her state of mind. In the next moment, thanks to her great hearing, she picks up the sound of feet thundering down a flight of stairs. They advance toward the door. For the first time since she decided to come here, a stir of nerves curdles in her stomach.

A teenage boy in a t-shirt and sweats opens the door and a wave of relief washes over her when she immediately recognizes him.

"Scott," she croaks, and she winces at how weak and pathetic she sounds.

Standing still, he scrutinizes Blair momentarily, his dark eyebrows scrunching together in confusion, before surprise and realization dawns on his handsome face. The arm that was gripping the door collapses to his side. His jaw drops. "Blair," he breathes out in response.

They both are frozen, Blair not knowing what to do and Scott still in shock of the totally unexpected appearance of his old friend positioned on his front porch, looking impossibly more beautiful than she used to. But then he studies her appearance more closely and concern filters through him.

She looks awful. Battered and disheveled, she's caked with mud, leaves, and dirt. His breath catching, he notices her hands are covered with dry blood; there are crimson spots on her ripped and shredded clothes. Her form is quivering, clearly freezing from being out in the chill night air with barely any cloth warming her. But her expression is the worst—it reflects such extreme emotions he's never seen anyone before obtain in their presence. Terror, anger, hopelessness. And so much sadness. He can almost feel her depression himself, it's so evident in her ocean blue eyes.

"Blair," he says again, this time sounding just as confused and worried as he felt. "Oh god, what happened to you?"

His words seem to break through her stalled and composed façade. Knees buckling, she starts to tumble to the ground. Hastily, he catches her. Her tears soak his shirt as she clutches onto him—she didn't like seeming so helpless and weak, but she couldn't help it. Her life now felt so unfixable. And seeing someone who has genuine concern for her, especially someone like Scott, sliced through any chance of her making this reunion a settled one.

Gently, he gathers her into his warm embrace, wrapping his arms around her torso so she's held securely to him. The gesture sends droplets of comfort down her body, and she rests her forehead on his shoulder. "I did something, Scott," she whispers. "Something… something so, _so _horrible…"

When he senses her starting to sob again, he hurriedly shushes her, trailing his fingers soothingly in shapes on her back. "Shh, it's okay. There's nothing you could have done that can't be made right," he assures her.

"No, you're wrong," she cries, fingers curling into the cloth of his shirt. "I just don't know what to do."

He's only ever felt this terrible, this sympathetic for someone once before in his life. When Stiles lost his mother. But—he didn't think it was plausible—Blair's acting worse. Everything about her right now is immensely more despondent than Stiles ever was. What could she have done that is as awful as she's insinuating?

With ginger, he lifts her light body so he can carry her up the stairs. With silent ease, he maneuvers them into his bedroom, glad that he's able to hear his mother's quiet snoring down the hall. Once they're in and the door's closed, he lays her on his bed, flipping the comforter over and tucking her in. Just like he used to whenever her and her parents would get in a fight, or when she was bullied by the assholes at school. He starts to be nostalgic of those old times, when they were so close, but he shakes the thoughts away. Clearly now is not a time for that.

Scott can tell how exhausted she is, because once her sobs transfer into quiet whimpers and hiccups, she starts to drift into unconsciousness. Only a minute or two later she is fast asleep, her gorgeous face scrunched up in distress as she surely endures nightmares.

Tip-toeing into his bathroom, he silently shuts the door. He digs his phone out of his pocket, dialing a number he's learned by heart.

Finally, Stiles decides to pick up after the third call. "If you call me one more damn time, Scott, I will personally come over there and beat you with a baseball bat," he threatens in irritation, his voice groggy from sleep.

"We have a problem," Scott says, unfazed by the threat.

"A problem that required calling Stiles at four o'clock in the _freaking_ morning?" he grumbles. "This must be good. What is it? Did Derek get shot again? Because if he did I really don't care, so—"

"Blair's back."

All sarcasm is rapidly sucked out of Stiles, and he straightens up in his bed. "What?" he exclaims. "_The _Blair? _Your _Blair?!"

Scott rolls his eyes at his friends' choice of words. "I'm going to ignore that you just called her mine—but yes, that Blair." Sighing, he leans against the tile wall, combing his fingers through his hair. "I woke up to someone knocking on my door. It was her. Stiles, something happened to her. She started sobbing her eyes out, blubbering about how she did something _really _bad, she had dirt and blood all over her…"

"_Blood_?" Stiles repeats, worry of his own coating his tone, imagining the only other true great friend he's ever had besides Scott appearing the way he's describing. "I'm coming over. Now."

"No, don't. She's sleeping. I just needed to tell you."

Still bewildered, Stiles slacks back against his pillows, running his hand across his face and over his eyes. "What happened to her?" he asks.

"I don't know. She was way too upset to tell me. But Stiles…" Scott chews on the inside of his cheek. "There's something else."

"Of course there is."

"She smells different. And not in a usual way someone would smell different after not seeing them for so long, but in a familiar way. I noticed that Derek has the same scent-a scent only I, only _werewolves_, can sense and have."

Stiles knew where this was going, but he still asked, "What do you mean?"

"I think she's like me." He gulps. "I think she's a werewolf."

* * *

With an unreadable expression, Derek stares at the girl fast asleep in Scott's bed, her occasional murmur or grumble during her slumber acting as the only sound in the room. It's later in the morning now, so the luminescence of the sun is leaking through the open windows. The two other boys are there. Scott's leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest and an unhappy scowl drawn on his face. Stiles is lounged on the ground, a half-eaten bagel hanging from his lips as he scrolls through Facebook on his phone, centering his sights on the recent picture Lydia Martin posted.

"As much as I pictured never saying these two words to you, you're right," Derek declares, tearing his gaze away from Blair to peer at Scott indifferently. "She's one of us."

"How can you be so sure?" Stiles questions with suspicion through a full mouth of food. "It's not like she has the word werewolf printed on her forehead."

Derek gives him a grim look. "She might as well have. The scent werewolves obtain is especially strong when they're newly bitten, and I can smell it all over her."

In exasperation, Scott groans. "Great. Just what I needed. My ex-girlfriend showing up on my doorstep as a werewolf just as out of control as I am," he says.

The two boys look at Derek expectantly, as if they're waiting for him to say something really important.

"What?" Derek snaps. "Don't look at me like that."

"Well, you're the one with all the solutions, right?" Scott says, and then gestures to Blair. "What should we do?"

"_We _don't have to anything. This isn't my problem."

Scott gapes. "What do you mean this isn't your problem? _I'm _your problem apparently, so why isn't she?"

"Yeah," Stiles pipes, getting up from the floor to take a seat in Scott's computer chair, idly spinning himself around. "Aren't you like the official Beacon Hills care-taker of all unstable werewolves?"

Derek replies blankly, "Dealing with one naïve teenager who happened to get bitten is enough baggage for me." Shoving his hands in his jacket pockets, he stalks towards the window and prepares to climb out.

"Derek, wait!" Scott calls, and the older man stalls. "Blair… She means a lot to me. She and I used to be really close, and I can't let anything happen to her. But how am I supposed to handle her when I can't even handle myself?" Everyone is quiet before Scott continues in a softer, much more vulnerable voice, "She doesn't deserve to be alone. I hate to admit it, but she needs someone like you. Someone who actually knows what they're doing."

After an inner battle with himself, Derek straightens back up, facing them with an aggravated frown. "Fine," he states. "I'll help her."

"Thank you."

"So she's staying at your ol' creepy house then," Stiles says, smirking. "How exciting."

"What?" both Scott and Derek say in surprise. Cocking his eyebrows, Derek drapes his arms over his chest and asks, "Why would you think she's staying with me?"

"Because there's nowhere else she can go. Forget my house—having a Sherif as a dad would make things too complicated. And what would Scott tell his Mom? Not to mention, she knows Blair's dad and can call him to ask questions, like why his daughter is staying with the boy who used to be disgustingly obsessed with her."

"I wasn't _obsessed _with her," Scott hisses, his face turning red. "It was middle school for god's sake."

"I live alone," Derek replies adamantly.

"Oh, don't be brooding!" Stiles says, maneuvering over to stand next to the hateful werewolf, a sarcastic smile spread across his cheeks. "Everyone needs a roomie once and a while! Maybe you guys can play checkers or something every Friday night. It could be fun! And anyway, what better way to look after her than if she's under your roof?"

Derek is mentally debating punching Stiles in the face when his, and the other two boys, deliberation is targeted to the girl on the bed, who is no longer asleep. After slowly stretching her stiff body, she props herself up with her elbows and stares at them in speculation. Noticing Stiles, she smiles as wide as she can—which, for her stability currently, is not very wide. "Stiles," she says. "Hey."

"Hey, Blair!" Stiles responds with a grin, loping over to her. He bends down to give her an awkwardly positioned hug, but it doesn't matter to either of the old friends. "It's great to see you. You look great!"

"You, too," she says, sitting up on the edge of Scott's bed. Both Stiles and Scott watch her sadly; her forlorn demeanor is painfully obvious. Blair used to be so upbeat—a cheerful and ebullient girl who shined sunlight on every situation. That's gone, at least for now. It's hidden inside of her somewhere, but it's been caged up ever since yesterday. Ever since she realized what she had done.

Scott rushes to sit next to her on the bed. "How are you feeling?" he asks. The corners of her lips lift as his tone. Always the worrier.

"Better, I guess." She frowns again. "Last night… Scott, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to barge in on you like that, without a warning or anything." Breathing a deep breath, she starts to pick at her chipped nail polish. "I know we haven't spoken in so long, but I had nowhere else to go. Where I moved, I never met anyone like you. Like Stiles. You both are still two of the only people I trust."

Her words make Scott's heart swell with happiness. He hadn't lost his friend like he had believed all these years. "Blair, nothing has changed. We still care about you. A lot. Right, Stiles?"

"Hell, yeah!" he exclaims, squeezing Blair's boney shoulder. "There hasn't been anyone that's been able to prank Scott and have pizza eating contests with me like you used to."

After sending Stiles a fond smile, she locks gazes with Scott, who's staring at her caringly. She's about to start explaining to them what happened, feeling a sudden blaze of trust for her two companions, before she finally notices Derek standing in the corner of the room. He's watching the three of them with a blank facial expression. The words that were building up in throat clamp back down, crawling back into her mind where they stay unspoken.

Scott and Stiles see how she's looking at Derek untrustingly, and they're quick to introduce the two. "Blair, this is Derek Hale. A friend of ours," Scott says, motioning to the emotionless man. "Derek, this is Blair Carter."

Derek nods in acknowledgment, but Blair doesn't move. "Why's he here?" she questions, irritated with the fact that this stranger is getting in the way of hopefully getting Scott's help with her unlikely circumstance.

Snorting humorlessly, Derek retorts, "Nice meeting you too."

"He's here to help," Scott says, taking Blair's hand to cradle it in his. "Listen, you didn't tell me much last night, but I was able to figure out something on my own. I know what's happened to you."

Hastily taking her hand away from his grasp, she gets to her feet and hugs her arms around herself. With her jaw clenched, she backs up so she can observe all three of them, catching their every move. All trust she once obtained has now diminished. "You can't know what happened to me. It's not—"

"It happened to me too, Blair."

Her eyes widen. "W-What?"

"Yeah, about a month or two ago." Reluctant to continue yet knows he has no choice, he says, "We're werewolves. Both of us."

Blair is instantaneously shut up.

For the next hour or so, the three guys explain everything to Blair, details about werewolves in general and then the entire situation with the Alpha and how he bit Scott because he's trying to create a pack. The whole time Blair is quiet, speaking only to ask a question or two, but overall she's stunned into silence. She can't believe this is all happening to her. She can't believe this all happened to _Scott_.

"Blair, do you remember getting attacked by something, like an animal? Getting bitten?" Stiles asks her.

"Yeah," she admits. "It was hardly a week ago. I was running in the woods near my house during the evening. There was a loud howl, and before I knew it was tackled to the ground by something incredibly large and heavy. It bit me on my arm. It hurt like hell. But after that he let me go, racing back into the trees. It was too dark for me to see what it was." The guys notice that she tells the story scarily passive for how dire the event was.

"What did you do after that?"

She shrugs. "I went home. Cleaned the wound out, put some bandages over it. I didn't tell anyone, though, and didn't really think much of it." Sighing, she runs her fingers over where the bite mark once was. "Guess I should have."

"I wonder if it was the Alpha," Scott muses, after sharing a knowing glance with Derek and Stiles.

"Probably was," Derek says, actually interested in Blair's case now that it involves the creature he's been searching for. "To my knowledge, there aren't any other wolves anywhere near here that would do that."

"Why would it go after me, though?" Blair says in a tone sprinkled with indignation and misery.

Derek's eyes flash to Scott before settling back on her. "To get to Scott," he declares, realization dawning on him. Everyone looks at the older wolf, especially Scott, in questioning. "It wants you in his pack, Scott," Derek says to him. "It clearly did some background check somehow to find someone he could use to lure you in. If it gets Blair on his side, maybe it thinks it can get you, too."

"Well, that _thing_ can't have me!" Blair cries, shooting up from her position on the chair to pace the room. "I'll fucking gauge it's eyes out before it even tries to lay a paw on me."

"Ya know," Stiles says, cutting through the tense silence, "The dog jokes don't really work when you're a werewolf yourself, Blair."

She ignores him. "I want it dead," she states, her voice low and quiet with menace. "I want to hunt it down until I'm staring into its cold, lifeless eyes."

_I had to look into my own brother's, _she thinks. _It's my turn to look into the monster that caused me to have to._

Her two friends stare at her in surprise—Blair never acted this way before. She used to be completely innocent and carefree all the time, wishing to constantly do things that right way, the humane way. But Derek, in a slightly expressional manor, seems impressed. Also, without even himself realizing it, he's intrigued by the passion edged into her words.

"I can make that happened," Derek responds to her hate-filled statement, desiring the Alpha's death just as much as she does. Their gazes meet for the first time and an unspoken acquiescence signals between them. While Derek nods fleetly in her direction, a slight but sincere smile tweaks at her lips.

"Then maybe I won't mind your help," she retorts, and he grins a little.

"Oh, no," Stiles groans, and hits his best friend on the shoulder. "Scott, they're conspiring together. Derek's evilness is already rubbing off on the poor girl!"

Scott, despite liking Allison more than he's liked any other girl, can't help but feel a sense of irritability from the thought of Derek and Blair having anything, even a mere acquaintance, together. Considering him and Blair left their previous relationship without an actual consensus discussed, neither of them saying their final thoughts on what they had, Scott does have lingering feelings for her. There's nothing he can really do about them. After all, when he thinks about it, she was his first love.

And it doesn't help that Scott doesn't really like Derek all that much.

"Soooo," Blair trails, putting her hands on her hips. "What now?"

"You're moving in with Derek," Stiles bluntly tells her.

Her eyes bulge out her head. "What? Why? I can just live on my own somehow, find a cheap apartment… But then again, that requires me having money…"

"It's so he can look out for you better," Scott says, a bit begrudgingly. "Train you to become more controlled and stronger."

"Okay." Looking down at herself, she cringes. "Shit, why didn't any of you inform me about how disgusting I look?" she asks, facing Scott. "Can I use your shower?"

He smiles. "Of course. Towels are in the closet by the sink."

After thanking him, Blair makes her way into his tiny bathroom. Without noticing it, Derek's eyes follow her with interest in his gaze—before the door shuts, he catches himself staring at the way her hips swayed slightly. Hastily, he looks away, choosing to pretend like that never occurred.

But Scott watched him the entire time.


	3. Chapter 2

Hey, everyone! Thanks again for the alerts. And I would just like to say that you don't have to worry about a massive, totally theatrical love triangle in this story. There will be a little thing between Derek and Scott over Blair but nothing huge. This is mainly a Derek/OC. He's the one who gets the love ;)

* * *

Chapter Two  
Third Person's Point of View

"You live here?" Blair asks when she and Derek arrive at the practically obliterated Hale house. From her position in the passenger seat of Derek's sleek, black Camaro, her curious gaze scrutinizes the house, which is colored like ash and destroyed in several areas. A place like this couldn't be habitable for anyone, could it? Even for a lone werewolf who evidently doesn't have many loved ones around, no one should have to live in these conditions.

Derek's jaw is set, uncomfortable with her question. "I'm not looking for your approval," is his caustic response. "After all, I'm not necessarily thrilled that I've suddenly turned into a babysitter for _two _irresponsible teenagers."

The new found anger Blair has adapted into herself starts to boil, and she scowls. "I wasn't judging you—I don't prejudge something about a person or situation I know nothing about," she says lowly. "And for the record, I'm not the child you so clearly believe I am. I'm nineteen, almost twenty. How old are you? Twenty-one, twenty-two?"

His silence is her answer.

"Exactly. So since we're going to be bunking together for who knows how long, I think we should be at least on some kind of common ground, don't you think?" she says without hesitation and only confident irritation. Before climbing out, she faces him and says, "And you're not my babysitter."

Once she's out of the car, Derek is taken aback by how boldly she stood up for herself, about how she didn't just take his rudeness like most people tend to do because they're usually afraid of what he might do. At this, he feels a smirk beginning to enlarge on his face, but he quickly compels himself to repress it, keeping his expression deliberately impassive.

The two of them saunter together towards the entrance of the house, Derek a few steps in front of Blair because of how long is strides are. Blair takes this moment to study him closer. He's breathtakingly attractive, that's for sure—a clearly very well-muscled body, sculpted and defined features, just the right amount of facial hair and, from when she saw them earlier, beautiful eyes. But even though she enjoys the whole brooding, I'm-better-than-everyone-else, bad body as much as the next girl, she can't help but be irritated by his attitude so far towards her. She didn't come here to be chastised by a condescending stranger (despite being a hot stranger) when she evidently has enough shit piled up on plate.

But then he turns to her now, with those stormy, light emerald eyes, and she sees all kinds of emotions locked up inside of those orbs. He must have gone through something—something worse than she is now, even if that's unlikely for her to believe. Pursing her lips, she mentally makes it a goal to figure out what that something is.

"So," she starts, "When can we start my training?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Training?"

"Yeah, like dueling, exercising, controlling my fury so it's unsurpassable." She begins stretching her body, cracks her knuckles, and then ridiculously installs herself in what is supposed to be a firm fighting stance, but looks more like she's an animal about to go to the bathroom. "But I've been a weak, non-athletic wimp my entire life, so be on easy on me at first."

Derek, for the first time in what feels like years for him, is amused—and not in a bitter, unsatisfying amusement he's been used to. This sensation is genuine, and it makes him feel lighter. Therefore this time he doesn't even attempt to stop his smirking. "So you're truly interested in learning, aren't you?"

"Completely."

"You're not going to back out of it gets too rough?" he interrogates, advancing towards her with his hands folded behind his back, his entertained eyes boring down at her. "If you break a nail, you're not going to run away screaming and crying?"

"Only if you promise to file them for me after," she retorts, unfazed by his endeavor to vex her. Daringly, she waves him forward with an unafraid grin. "Come on. Give me your best shot, Hale."

A spike of excitement peeks in Derek's chest, and he's suddenly centimeters away from her face, his hand wrapped around her neck—but not to the point where she's actually in pain. And even when his eyes flash an electric blue and she can feel the light sensation of claws as sharp as daggers scrapping slightly against her skin, she doesn't budge. Just continues to peer up at him with an arrogant simper attached to her lips. He's surprised, but more so curious, about her bravery.

"That all you got?" she whispers.

"Not even close," he whispers back. Before she can blink, he twists her around and pins her up against the door of the house, both of his hands now restraining her arms at either side of her body. His hot, even breath tickles the back of her neck, causing an involuntary shiver to travel up her spine. "I don't think you want to see what more I can do."

She turns her head as much as she can, angling her face so he can see her coquettish and provoking expression. "Try me," she dares.

He hesitates—and she knows it. That's how she's able to use one of her legs and knock him off his feet. Letting out an astonished grunt as he lands on the ground, Derek stares up at her with widened eyes, totally caught off guard. Was he really just beaten by her? _Really_?

"Shouldn't have hesitated," she says, and crouches down to get right in his face. "I'll be expecting more of a challenge next time. Meet you inside." With a wink, she saunters through the door, shutting it behind her.

Once Derek composes himself, he slowly gets back to his feet, brushing his shirt down and rolling his shoulders. Whatever just happened was something very foreign to him, and even though he won't admit it to himself, he enjoyed it as much as she did.

* * *

"You want to _what_?"

Derek's staring at Blair in a calm bafflement as she downs a bottle of water in merely ten seconds. The two of them had just finished one of their very strenuous training sessions, leaving both of them sweaty and sore—well, Blair more than Derek, considering she is the one actually being trained.

It's been almost two weeks since Blair showed up in Beacon Hills. Basically the whole length of time she's spent bettering herself as a werewolf, more determined than she's ever been for anything in her lifetime. Unlike he had thought at first, Derek doesn't mind taking the place as her helper, or "mentor" as she likes to call him. Truthfully, he sort of enjoys it. While Scott hardly ever listens to him, Blair does, following his advice and improving every day. In such a short period of time, she's become considerably stronger, more in control—and Derek is impressed. Sure, she's still got a lot to work on, and she and he, both having short-tempers, get into arguments quite often; however overall living with Derek has proved to be a great idea.

"I want to go to school," she repeats, using the bottom of her tank-top to wipe a line of sweat from her forehead. "I didn't stutter, did I?"

"No, but… Why?" he asks. "You already graduated."

"I'm not looking to go because I want a fulfilling high school career, Derek. There are three main reasons. One being I can look out for Scott and help them if something serious happens during school hours, and the second being simply because I want something else to do other than kick your ass every day."

He ignores her playful jab at him. "And the third?"

She suddenly turns grave. "I can create a new identity for myself," she says softly. "At least some sort of one. Maybe if I change my appearance a little and pretend to be two years younger, my Dad won't ever be able to find me." _If he's even alive_, she thinks.

Derek has never asked about what happened to Blair that made her want to leave her old life entirely and never look back, just like she hasn't asked him what happened to his house and where his family is. Scott and Stiles have tried to get it out of her, but she has made it clear that she isn't ready. Derek, understanding, has respected that. But that doesn't mean he isn't curious, especially since, despite him not necessarily liking that fact, he has grown a small soft spot for the girl. He does care for her, more so than he has for anyone in a long time.

Spending almost every second of every day with someone for two weeks will do that to a person, even if that said person is Derek Hale.

But he's made sure to keep himself consistently guarded, refusing to let his stubborn walls down for anyone. He can't let anyone in—he won't let that happen. Blair has noticed this about him, and it does bother her a little, but she can't really blame him when she finds herself doing the same exact thing.

After a few moments of contemplation, he says, "You really think no one would recognize you from when you used to live here?"

"Absolutely. It's been, like, six years and I wasn't especially _popular _anyway." She tugs her hair tie out, her voluminous red-hair cascading around her shoulders. "My entire life my hair has been a gigantic part of who I am; it's like the only characteristic of mine that stands out."

His eyebrows scrunch together. "Where are you going with this?"

She smirks. "Got some scissors?"

* * *

The next day, Blair is gazing in the only non-broken mirror in the Hale house. She doesn't see herself; she doesn't see the Blair Carter everyone knows and remembers. Some other girl is staring back at her, almost entirely different. Her hair now ends just above her shoulders, and it's not a fiery red anymore—it's a sleek, chestnut brunette. Stiles, per Blair's request, had purchased the contacts and brought it to them. He was in total favor of Blair going to school, looking forward to spending more time with his friend more frequently.

She has the urge to cry looking at her new self, because it just reminds her of how abruptly her life has changed and what she has lost. She doesn't, though; she hates crying. She hasn't since that first encounter with Scott, and she has vowed to make that was her last moment acting like a pathetic, emotional mess. Not only is she different on the outside, she's changed even drastically more on the inside.

There's a knock on the bathroom door. "Blair?" It's Scott. "You okay?"

Sighing, she diverts her eyes away from the unfamiliar reflection and opens the door. She smiles at him, strained. "Yeah," she promises. "I just look… different."

Looking at her now, Scott also sees a different person standing in front of him, but not because of her hair. Scott's noticed how much she's changed from the beginning—she's not the timid, clumsy sixth grader he fell in love with anymore. She's a new Blair, emotionally damaged by whatever has happened to her.

He's about to say something when he's interjected by a voice behind him, "It looks good." Derek's leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest, smiling ever so slightly her. "Fits you."

She grins. "Thank ya, Derek," she says, patting him on the cheek before turning to Scott, who can't help but be surprised and a little irritated by their friendly manner. "Ready?"

"As long as you are," he says. "We got everything situated."

When she spoke to Scott and Stiles about her plan to sneak her way into high school, Stiles instantly had an idea about how to pull it off. Blair would be an eighteen-year-old who's a senior because she was held back in elementary school. According to the school, she's living on her own, but is frequently checked in on by the McCall's because she's the daughter of one of Mellissa's old friends. For technical matters, if the school needed someone to act as one, Scott's mom offer parental services for her. But because she's eighteen, she doesn't need her real parents to be involved.

Somehow, Scott was able to convince Mellissa that we were doing this because Blair was going through a really hard time at home and never got to finish High School due to complications. She, being the kindhearted woman she's always been, promised to help out as much as she could as long as we were being careful. And that Blair visited her often.

It really did pan out perfectly.

Blair and Scott leave the house together. Stiles is parked outside, waiting for them. While Scott gets in the passenger's seat, Blair momentarily glances over her shoulder to find Derek watching them from one of the second-story windows. With a small smile, she lifts her hand in a wave. He just nods before disappearing from her view.

Taking a deep breath, she climbs into the back of the Jeep, and Stiles speeds off.


End file.
